Sherlock Holmes' mind consisted of a small room. There was no furniture, only stacked boxes and papers, drawers and cabinets. There was hardly any walking room, but that was alright with him.
Now, and this goes back years and years, Holmes cleared a single drawer (it used to be held with information on the solar system, but that was information he hardly cared for) for the use of Dr. John H. Watson. However, over the years, that single drawer turned into two, and those into three.
In the first drawer was basic information about Watson, his appearance:
his carefully groomed blonde moustache, at the height of fashion, to match his just slightly darker blonde hair.
his blue eyes with lightly dispersed tan flecks around the pupil and silver diamonds stretching to the edges, which darkened when angry or drunk, lightened when jovial.
his old leg wound he received from the Afghanistan war, which still bothers him when he has nightmares the previous night or when it is raining. There is also his nervous habit of rubbing a hand against the same leg's thigh when stressed or uncomfourtable.
his dress, always impeccably clean, also with the height of fashion. They are usually a shade of grey, his overcoat a light tan colour that is constantly needing to be replaced due to blood stains (mostly from Holmes after fighting at the PunchBowl), soot or dirt stains (from chasing down criminals), or from rips and tears (also from chasing down criminals).
his way of walking always with the present limp. After Watson walks into the door of their 221B Baker-street flat, he will call Holmes' name, close the door after exactly four seconds of calling, and walk up the stairs, always pausing on the thirteenth step of seventeen for a quick breath, then continue on his way. He will open the door to their shared rooms, hang his hat and coat on the hook, close the door, and move to put his cane against the wall. If it was an especially bad day, he will forgo putting his cane away and use it to help him to his chair, a huff of frustration following.
In the second drawer in the case of Dr. Watson was his personality and habits:
his extreme loyalty to Holmes and others, which leads to his chivalry towards those who may not warrant but still certainly request his assistance.
his bravery and courage when rushing headlong into danger, chasing criminals or clues. He doesn't question Holmes when he requests a favour or act of him, and goes into battle, consciously aware that he is the bait.
his kindness to a fault. Watson is overly kind, overly nice, and overly aware of the power of words. He is a true gentleman, his hand always extended to anyone who wishes to take it, and his looks and respect make it that they are most always willing.
his absolute loathing of any badness. It must have been doubly instilled in the war, because the criminals they chase after always send a personal emotional spark through the doctour that sometimes make things go a little badly, but that is alright with Holmes, because it makes the doctour most endearing.
In the third drawer lied papers of things Holmes found himself liking about his companion:
his way of speaking with gentleness, yet when angry, the most fierce and hating tone to have ever been spit in his direction-he wondered if this made him a masochist.
his faults-every single one. His scars from the Afghan war, his limp from a stray bullet, his not-as-good-as-his (but then again, who's was?) deduction skills-everything.
his strange attraction to Holmes' hands. Holmes has caught the man staring at them quite a number of times. He finds this most interesting.
his loyalty. Watson will always be loyal and faithful to him, even when Mary asks him to stay. It pleases Holmes in a way that may not be particularly healthy, but Holmes is a known sociopath-he could know nothing of this.
how he stays by his side (it ties with the above reason, but Holmes thinks it belongs in its own categoury). Watson will ALWAYS be beside him, pistol in hand, there to watch his back. Watson will be there when he needs someone to go out and speak with people when he himself cannot get involved. Watson will always be there when Holmes really needs him-when the black fits strike him, and his hands reaches out to grasp his Moroccan case, and Watson is there to stifle the movement, grabbing his wrist in a bone-crushing grip, eyes ablaze with anger. Holmes is still unsure if Watson is angry with him or with himself for allowing Holmes to continue this way.
The list went on for another collection of pages that seemed to make the drawer appear as if it contained several hidden compartments. A single piece of paper was wedged into the very side of the drawer, stuffed between the paper containing his faults and his obsession with Holmes' hands. It read THINGS I DISLIKE ABOUT DR. JOHN H. WATSON, and underneath was scrawled:
"HOLMES!" Watson's voice called from below, hurried, breaking Holmes' reverie. He heard the customary limped footsteps, the normal pause on the thirteenth step absent, peaking his interest. The doctour slammed the door open, breathing heavily. His clothes were disheveled, and he could see by the tracks of dirt and…were those darker stains? Was that bloo—
"A woman, shot outside. Couldn't chase murderer," Watson panted, eyebrows knit, probably berating himself for losing the man due to his leg.
Ah, Holmes thought. That explains the blood.
"Then we haven't a second to lose, do we?" Holmes asked, jumping from his seat and running to the coat stand in a flurry, grabbing his coat and hat, tilting it to its customary tilted angle. He looked up a moment at the doctour and smiled brilliantly, blood pumping adrenaline through his veins at the thought of another case. The doctour returned his excited smile with a soft one of his own, causing Holmes to quickly rush out, lest he do something he shouldn't do. Watson followed behind him as they both exited, the front door still wide open. He saw the woman on the floor, the blood spatter, the bullet, the murderer—all the details just waiting for him to put the mystery together. He grabbed the doctour's arm and rushed out towards adventure.
Far away, in a genius mind, two drawers pertaining to a certain doctour lay closed; the third closed haphazardly, papers sticking out from the edges. The only readable words came from a parchment torn almost in half from the hurriedness of the drawer's closing. On it, in bright red ink, read:
THINGS I DISLIKE ABOUT DR. JOHN H. WATSON:
NOTHING
(Except for when Watson continues to complain about his Moroccan case usage. And his wife, Mary [one cannot forget her]. And a bit of his gambling habits [he's cost them the rent more than a few times, you know]. But that's it.)